“No,” he said abruptly. “I don’t deserve it. I have deceived myself. I believed it was my work I was thinking of—the assistance you would be to it—I was mistaken. It was gross presumption. It was you I was thinking of. I did not know it was in me to care for any woman as I care for you, and now I know it.”
He turned away sharply, and almost before Cicely saw what he was doing, had left the room. A moment after, she heard the front door shut.
“He has gone away,” she thought sorrow fully. “Almost the only friend I have, and in trouble caused by me.”
But late that evening a note was brought to her. “There was no answer,” the servant told Cicely as she opened it. It was a short note.
“Dear Miss Methvyn,” it said, “I am leaving Leobury at once. The sooner I get to my new work the better. I have made a mistake, and but for your gentleness and goodness my eyes might have been more harshly opened. I know you will have forgiven my presumption. I only write to say good-bye and to beg you to let me know if at any time I can be of use to you. When your plans are settled, I shall be very grateful if you will let me know what they are. I enclose my address. Yours very truly,
“CHRISTOPHER HAYLE.”
And a few weeks later when her plans were settled, Cicely wrote to him as he asked.
It was a letter which reached her by the very next post which helped her to come to a decision. There were two letters for her that morning. One in a handwriting which she had not seen for many months, familiar as it used to be—that of Trevor Fawcett. He wrote in his own name and that of his wife to entreat her to consider the possibility of going to them at least for a time. The tone of the letter touched Cicely.
“I hardly know how to put in words the extreme gratification it would give us to receive you for as long as it would suit you to stay,” wrote Trevor. “We are at Barnstay now; indeed, we spend most of our time here. Geneviève would write herself, but I have asked her to let me do so instead, fancying I might be able to say something which might induce you to come. I cannot tell you what it would be to me to see you again.”
“Poor Trevor!” thought Cicely. Would Geneviève have written herself? She doubted it. “Poor Trevor,” she repeated. “I wish, what long ago I used to fancy I wished—I wish it far more now—that he had been really my brother. There could have been no mistakes or troubles then. I do hope he is happy.”